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John Henry Boner 

By Marcus Benjamin, Ph. D. 

Early last autumn, while spending a few days in Rich- 
mond, I visited the beautiful cemetery of Hollywood and there 
with uncovered head I paid silent homage to the dust of those 
brave heroes of the Lost Cause whose memory is preserved by 
that rude pyramid of stones which loving hearts and strong 
hands have combined to rear to the glory of the military 
achievements of the Confederate soldiers. Continuing on my 
way in that silent city of the dead, I saw the memorials of 
many who bore names famous in the history of the common- 
wealth and the nation, and then at the extreme end of the 
enclosure I found the place where President Davis was laid 
away. On the banks of the James, overlooking the city he 
loved so well, and surrounded by those who were dear to him 
in life rests the great leader of the Confederacy. Thus are the 
worthy sons of Virginia honored by their descendants. 

A few weeks later I visited Raleigh, and there, while bask- 
ing in the sunshine in the little square that surrounds the 
State-house, my mind wandered back to a bleak and dreary 
March day earlier in the year when the remains of John Henry 
Boner — North Carolina's first man of letters — were consigned 
to an unmarked grave in an obscure cemetery in Washington. 
Like Poe — unappreciated and neglected in life by his own — he 
awaits the resurrection into fame that will come as surely as it 
did to that greatest of all American writers. In the hope that 
it may come soon the following lines are written. 

In the old historic town of Salem, North Carolina, Boner 
was born in 1845. A picture of the actual house in which he 
first saw the light of day is given in the volume of his poems 
published after his death, and in that building his first poem 
was written. Under the title of "Broken and Desolate" he 
describes '*the old home where my youth was spent." In 
after years he found it **all sadly altered" and "all changed," 
so that he writes: 



[2] 



^£ 



. . . . "I pressed my face 
Against the silent wall, then stole y^^ 

Away in agony of soul, /^f-^ 

Regretting I had seen the place." 

Of hivS boyhood days the bare fact that he received an 
''academic education" is all that he told of that period of his 
existence, for now that he has gone from us comes the realiza- 
tion that he never said much about himself. Among his poems 
is "A Memory of Boyhood" in which he describes how: 

"Floating on the gentle Yadkin in an olden-time canoe 
Singing old plantation ballads — I and charming blue-e^-ed Sue — 
Blue-eyed, golden tressed Sue." 

Other stanzas tell of the "ripe delicious muscadines," 
"sweetest grapes that ever clustered," but grapes were not all 
he gathered, for he writes: "sweeter lips were never pressed," 
and closes with, 

"Years may pass, but I can never cease to dream of blue-e3^ed Sue 
And the mornings on the Yadkin in the olden-time canoe — 
Blue-eyed, golden tressed Sue." 

As he grew into manhood he learned the printer's trade and 
in time was graduated from the composing room into the 
editorial sanctum, being connected with journals both in Salem 
and in Asheville. During the reconstruction period he seems 
to have affiliated with the republican party, for which indis- 
cretion he was to pay severely, but in extenuation of that 
course it may be said that he followed the example of many 
worthy North Carolinians, among whom was Robert M. 
Douglas, who for many years held important judicial appoint- 
ments in North Carolina, culminating in his election in 1899 
as justice of the Supreme Court of that vState. Boner served 
as reading clerk of the North Carolina constitutional conven- 
tion in 1868 and was chief clerk of the North Carolina house 
of representatives in 1869-70. 

But there were also other interests, and he tells how on a 
still autumnal day, 

"We walked among the whispering pines." 

There it was his misfortune 



[3] 

"To watch those fatal roses bloom 

Upon her cheeks — red, cruel signs — 
But all of love, not of the tomb, 

We spoke among the whispering pines." 

It was while in Raleigh that he learned to love her 

. . . . "Unto whom I cleave 
Loyally and do believe 
Noblest type of womanhood." 

And perhaps it was there that he wrote: 

"Ah what a perfect night is this 
For sauntering slowly hand in hand 
Under moon-silvered leaves to stand 
And touch lips brimming with a kiss, 

"While the warm night air, rich with scent 
Of white magnolia and red rose, 
Through the low limbs above you bent.'' 

His political experience seems to have been his undoing at 
home, for he soon left his native State and entered the civil 
service in Washington, where until 1886 he served in the 
printing office, at first as a compositor and then as a proof- 
reader. That he was appreciated by his associates is shown 
by the fact that in 1878 he was president of Columbia Union, 
No. loi, in which office "he showed executive ability and a 
thorough knowledge of parliamentary practice, and he gave the 
union a conservative and safe administration." 

It was during these years that fame as a poet came to glad- 
den his life. His verses of this period were of his own South- 
land. 

"So one who leaves his boyhood's home, 

About the wretched world to roam. 

Led off by visions born of hope 

Inspired In^ \^outh's kaleidoscope, 

Will often turn — his visions fled, 

His hopes like storm-bent blossoms dead — 

Toward that place of all the blest, 

Old home, the haven of sweet rest." 

Soon after the return of the democratic party to power Mr. 
Boner, at the instigation of those who were not willing to for- 
get his polical affiliations in his native State, was discharged 



[4] 

from the government service on the ground of offensive parti- 
sanship. 

Meanwhile in 1883 his first book of poems entitled "Whisper- 
ing Pines" was published in Washington, and the beauty of 
many of his verses gained for him recognition and appreciation 
from the literary men of the North, chief among whom was 
Edmund Clarence Stedman, who has ever extended a friendly 
hand to younger and worthy authors, and with whom he had 
formed a pleasant acquaintance through correspondence. In 
his "Poets of America," published in 1885, Stedman specially 
mentions Boner in writing of Southern poets, and in describing 
their work he saj^s, "that they open vistas of the life and 
spirit of the region." Of no one is this truer than of Boner. 

Learning of his having been removed from office, Mr. Sted- 
man invited Boner to New York City, and soon secured con- 
genial employment for him as one of the staff on the Century 
Dictionary, then in course of preparation. For a time he aided 
Mr. Stedman in his great I^ibrary of American Literature, and 
of that service it is recorded "for the accuracy of the text we 
are greatly indebted to the friendship and professional skill of 
Mr. John H. Boner, of the Century Dictionary staff, who has 
given much of his spare time to the correcting of our page- 
proofs, and in other ways has been of service to the work." 

With the change of scene came new inspirations and he 
wrote a series of City Sonnets, among which is his "Broad- 
way at Noon. ' ' That great thoroughfare he calls the "Niagara 
of Streets," and he says: 

"Not the roar 

Of ocean on her wildest crags could drown 

The tumult of this torrent; and the prey 

Of tempests, were they cast upon the shore 

From places where the wild w^aves drew them down 

Could show no stranger wrecks than this Broadway." 

Also of this period is his "Our American God, Hustle," 
which opens with 

"All things that follow nature's course take time" 

and then 

"The crime 

Of haste is man's, who, trampling on law, pleads 
God's ignorance of what the future needs." 



[5] 

His best known poem is his "Poe's Cottage at Fordham," 
which appeared in the Century Magazine in November, 1889. 
I quote the last stanza: 

"Here through this lowly portal, 
Made sacred by his name, 
Unheralded immortal 
The mortal went and came. 
And fate that then denied him, 
And envy that decried him, 
And malice that belied him. 
Has cenotaphed his fame." 
His Standing as a man of letters received futher recognition 
by his election in 1888 to membership in the Authors Club in 
New York. An honor well deserved and gladly conferred 
upon him. 

It may be interesting to recall that about this time Poe's 
cottage was offered for sale and Boner enthusiastically dis- 
cussed with the present writer the desirability of organizing a 
Poe association which should have as its principal object the 
purchase and preservation of that historic home, but after 
careful deliberation it was decided that the project was not 
feasible and the scheme was abandoned. 

For a time he served as literary editor of the New York 
World, and of that experience I recall a single incident. Pope 
Leo was seriously ill and an obituary notice was needed at 
once. Boner was assigned to the task and it was well on in 
the morning before he finished it, but it was never used. 
Boner himself was sleeping in his grave a year or more before 
the final summons came to the venerable pontiff. 

During the years 1892-94 he was connected with the edi- 
torial staff of the Standard Dictionary. His experience and 
excellent judgment made him a valuable addition to that force 
of literary men. His desk for a portion of the time was 
adjacent to my own and the friendship that ensued continued 
till his death. It was at this period that he built the home on 
Staten Island to which he gave the name of Cricket Lodge, 
and he described it as 

"But a lodge indeed— 

Two end-gables, one end freed 
Of a dormer- windowed deep 
Rooftree— such where pigeons preen— 
And the shingles stained moss-green." 



[6] 



In this home, his own, 



"On a green and breezy hill 
Overlooking Arthur Kill 
And the Orange Mountains blue 
In their everchanging hue." 

he had hoped to pass 

"Life's declining j^ears 

Happier than the past had been." 

As his work on the Standard Dictionary approached com- 
pletion its publishers recognizing his editorial ability placed 
him in control of their well known publication The Literary 
Digest over whose columns he continued in charge until 1897. 
The improved character of that journal, due to his critical 
judgment and excellent taste, soon became apparent and has 
since been maintained. In addition to his regular duties he 
prepared a valuable series of brief summaries of American 
contemporar)^ poetry that attracted much notice. 

Conspicuous among Boner's traits of character was that of 
dogged persistence. He would not yield — he could not — and 
so on a matter of no great importance he declined to agree 
with his publishers, and rather than yield, he resigned from 
his editorship. 

Then came dark days and soon 

"The wolf came sniffling at 013- door, 
But the wolf had prowled on my track before, 
And his sniff, sniff, sniff at my lodge door-sill 
Only made me laugh at his devilish will." 

Desultory literary work is not very remunerative, and w^hile 
his poems found read}- acceptance with the Century Magazine, 
and he contributed certain articles to such high-class publica- 
tions as "Appleton's Annual Cyclopedia." still it was not long 
before 

"The time came when I laughed no more. 

But glanced with fear at my frail lodge door, 

For now I knew that the wolf at bay 

Sooner or later would have his way." 

But his cup was not yet full. Cricket I^odge — his only home 
— had to be given up. Sickness followed and then with noth- 
ing but his pride left there came 



[-] 

"A crash, and mj door flew open wide, 
My strength was not as the beast's at my side. 
That night on my hearthstone cold and bare 
He licked his paw and made his lair." 

At last, broken in spirit and in health, he appealed to friends 
in Washington asking that a place be found for him. A 
decision of the Civil Ser\4ce Commission to the effect that 
removal from government employ on the ground of "offensive 
partisanship" prior to entrance in the service was invalid, 
fortunately made it possible to restore him to his place as 
proof-reader in the Government Printing Office. His literary 
associates in New York — members of the Authors Club — were 
successful in enlisting the powerful aid of Senator Depew, and 
in the spring time of 1900 he was welcomed back to his desk 
by many of his old colleagues. 

It soon became apparent that his strength was not even 
equal to the light work required of him and he began to fail 
in health. The winter proved a severe one for him, and it 
was evident that a complete rest was essential for the restora- 
tion of his health. A small pamphlet entitled "Some New 
Poems' ' selected from writings published chiefly in the Century 
Magazine, subsequent to his "Whispering Pines" and most 
kindly dedicated to the present writer ( "whose loyal friend- 
ship has been a solace and a help to me in dark days"), fur- 
nished the slender purse required for a few months visit to 
North Carolina. 

In May he wrote from the hospital where he had gone for 
recuperation: "Am going South next week, if possible. In 
bad shape. Doctor says consumption. " A few days and he 
was able again to hear "the notes of the Southern mocking- 
bird." 

"But you must live in the South, 

Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth 

The land she loves, in the secret of the night. 

To hear such music — the soul-delight, 
Of the moon-loved land." 

For a little more than six months he was happy in being 

"Back in the Old North State, 

Back to the place of his birth, 
Back through the pines' colonnaded gate 

To the dearest spot on earth. 



[8] 

No s-vv'eeter joy can a star feel 

When into the sky it thrills 
Than the rapture that wings a Tar Heel 

Come back to his native hills." 

In the exuberance of his joy at being among his "loved 
ones in mothernook" he wrote "The Wanderer Back Home" 
of which the foregoing is the initial stanza. It was published 
in the Charlotte, N. C, Observe}^, of December 15, 1901, and 
onl)^ a few days before he sent the following message to his 
comrades in Washington: "I am in bed again and am mortally 
sick. Have a new doctor who tries to jolly me along." This 
message came from Raleigh, where much of his time was 
spent, and of which place he wrote facetiously years before : 
"I feel quite at home in New York. It reminds me so much 
of Raleigh." His visit was near at an end, and to his friends 
"he spoke of how he loved Raleigh and its people and hoped 
to spend his last days there," "but not thus the stern fates 
would. ' ' 

In January he returned to Washington and tersel}^ an- 
nounced his arrival with " 'And the cat came back!' I go to 
work tomorrow. ' ' 

For a little while he was able to continue at his desk, but 
it soon became apparent that for him 

"Night is falling — gentlj' falling, and the silver stars are shining." 

With pain that was severe and with suffering that was cruel 
he struggled against the inevitable through the year with a 
courage as noble as that shown by those immortal comrades 
who fought through the Wilderness with Lee. And then in 
March, 1902, the end came and he realized 

"The bHss of that Eternal Rest 
Emancipated souls must know." 

For he found 

"Reunion with the loved and lost, 

Revealment of the Almighty cause. 
The Unknowable made plain — the cost 

Of knowledge fixed by wondrous laws." 

Let me add one more stanza 

"How^e'er it be, one thing I know: 

There is a faith which hath sufficed 
Men mourning in the land of woe — 

A simple faith in Jesus Christ. 



[9] 

Among his earlier poems — doubtlessly one written before he 
left North Carolina — I find the following words : 

"Where shall my grave be— will a stone 

Be raised to mark awhile the spot, 

Or will rude strangers, caring not, 
Bury a man to them unknown?" 

His associates and friends bore him to a lonely grave — as yet 
unmarked — and there far from home and far from those he 
loved he rests. In one of his sweetest poems he tells how 

"The bells are ringing— Sabbath bells," 
and then 

"I hear 

The old Moravian bell ring clear. 
But see no more — tears fill my eyes," 

and then the wish 

"Where'er it be my fate to die, 
Beneath those trees in whose dark shade 
The first loved of ni}^ life are laid 

I want to lie." 

And What of the Man? I have tried to tell, in his ow^n 
words, as far as possible, the story of the life of my friend 
Boner, and my effort will not have been in vain if perchance 
my poor endeavor finds favor among the men and women of 
the Old North State he loved so loyally, and of whose beauties 
he sung so sweetly, and it may be — I pray that it may be so — 
that they may bring him home at last to rest in the little 
Moravian s:ravevard in Salem. 



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